Jack and Toby chuckled, as well—a release of nervous energy. That had been close. They’d had closer, Jack especially. Once, he’d stared down the barrel of a pistol just inches from his face while trying to pull his trousers on. Luckily for him, the wife of the man holding said pistol chose that moment to throw a pillow at her husband, and Jack took the opportunity to jump out the window. He’d landed in a rosebush, and despite being scratched senseless by the thorns, he’d run to his carriage barefoot, laughing like the idiot he was to have been diddling with a magistrate’s wife in the first place. Obviously the man hadn’t thought his wife’s honor to be worth hunting Jack down, but just to be safe he’d never returned to Exeter.
His smile at the memory faded as the carriage sped on toward St. Pancras and he brushed slivers of wood from the front of his coat. He hadn’t anticipated tonight’s attack, but he’d felt it in the warehouse. He’d known something was wrong and he hadn’t gotten him and his men out of there fast enough to heed the warning bells clanging in his head. That was badly done of him. Philippe and Toby knew there could be consequences to working with him, but if one of them had been killed tonight...
Well, Abernathy would owe him more than money. As it was, the viscount owed him an explanation, or at least an apology.
What the hell was in that crate?
It wasn’t easy getting the crate into St. Pancras. Fortunately, the train stop wasn’t terribly busy, and Jack and his friends had disguised themselves as laborers to make their activities less interesting to anyone who might see them.
The tricky part was going to be getting the crate to the correct spot, as it required them dropping onto the tracks and down a bit, unless Toby could get them into the maintenance rooms.
As luck would have it, the train pulled out of the station just as they arrived on the platform, so for the time being they had the place all to themselves.
“Don’t dawdle,” Jack said to Toby as his lanky friend crouched in front of a service door, lock-picking tools in hand.
At one time it had been easy to pick a lock—they were practically all the same, and a master key was as good as gold. Then people starting taking their home security more seriously—a ring of body snatchers who weren’t too picky about whether or not their victims were already dead when they set upon them would do that— and locks became more intricate. Now there were punch cards and clockwork mazes, secret codes and what have you.
Fortunately, the one on this door was a simple clockwork piece. Jack could have picked it himself, but the benefit of being the one running the show meant not getting the knees of your trousers dirty.
There was a noise beside him—a muffled sliding sound. Frowning, Jack turned his head. Had it come from inside the crate? He listened again, but all he heard was the gentle clicks of Toby’s tools, and Philippe singing a French song under his breath.
“We’re in,” Toby crowed as he pushed the door open.
Jack clapped him on the back. “Well done, mate. Let’s go.” He could hear footsteps approaching, some of which did not sound human but more like the clang of metal on stone. Had their pursuers caught up to them?
Philippe pushed the trolley over the threshold with Toby holding the door. Jack followed, catching the door before it closed all the way. Through a slit no wider than his index finger, he watched as two men and an automaton appeared on the platform. He didn’t recognize them, but they certainly looked like men on a mission.
“Where do you think they went?” one asked.
The shorter one glanced toward the track. “Probably caught the train.”
“And leave that remarkable carriage? I wouldn’t.”
“Well, they’re not here. I don’t see them on the track—they wouldn’t have gotten far. They’re limited to the public areas. They must have taken the train.”
Jack stifled a chuckle. These two weren’t dressed well enough to be aristocracy, but they were gently bred all the same. Upper class, perhaps. They were the sort who naturally assumed everyone played by the same set of rules as they.
“Well, they’ll be coming back for that carriage, so I say we watch that. We can always follow them. We have to get that crate. If it falls into the wrong hands...”
The smaller man nodded. “I know, my friend. I know. Come, let’s find a porter or station worker—someone might have seen them.”
He’d heard enough. Jack carefully closed the door and turned to his companions. “Philippe, you have to get up top and move the carriage immediately. Hide it out of the way.” It was what they should have done to begin with, but there was no time for recriminations now. They had wrongly assumed their pursuers were no longer a threat, or if they were, that they wouldn’t think to look behind the station buildings for their vehicle.
“
“Thirty minutes, outside that hotel a few blocks down—the one where you met Mariska.”
At the mention of his fiancee’s name, Philippe smiled dreamily. “She picked my pocket. A good choice. I will meet you there.”
The Frenchman made his escape through another door, one that led into the maintained areas of the station. Jack and Toby followed him in, but when Philippe veered right, his companions kept going straight.
“Who do you reckon those blokes were?” Toby asked as they steered the crate down a corridor just barely wide enough for it.
“No idea. No one I ever wants to meet again, though.”
“Are we delivering this thing into the wrong hands, Jackey-boy?”
“Dunno that eever. Don’t much care at the moment.”
“Aye, understood. Is this the door?”
It was. Marked with just a number, the door was like all the rest, but it opened into a room with another door that led below the tracks, to the catacombs and tunnels below.
Going down stairs with the bloody cart was not easy, but they managed it in a few short minutes. The spot where they were to leave it was just feet away. Toby tipped the trolley when they got there, and Jack eased the crate onto the dirt floor.
There was that noise again—coming from inside the crate.
“Did you hear that?” Toby asked, glancing about.
Jack nodded but didn’t speak. Frowning, he reached out his right hand and rapped his knuckles once against the side of the crate. A second later he could have sworn something in the crate had knocked back.
This time he tapped out a pattern—a rhythm. There was a moment of silence, and then the same pattern was echoed back to him.
“What the devil?” Toby’s eyes were larger than saucers.
“Grab that pry bar, my friend.” It was luck to find one nearby, but that didn’t really surprise him. Good fortune seemed to follow him, and he was going to take full advantage of it while he could.
Toby snatched up the old, rusty bar and handed it to him. Quickly, Jack shoved it under the lip of the crate top and pulled down. There was a tearing—splintering—sound, and then the top of the crate popped open.
Jack looked inside.
Toby looked inside, as well. “Sweet God!” He jumped back, face white with horror.
Jack’s attention drifted back to the contents of the crate.
At first glance it was difficult to tell what it was. Metal covered part of it. It was dirty, and looked as though it had been in this crate for a very long time. That thought disgusted him. It was cruel and barbaric.
It made a noise, but no words came out—just groaning. It was probably his imagination but it sounded like “Help me.”
